I was tearing down a deep flight of stairs surrounded by other heaving bodies. We were running, because we were told to. We were commanded to go to this place and we knew there was no choice but to obey. Over a loudspeaker, a voice told us we were to assemble somewhere below. We were told we had to partake in the activity, that it was mandatory for all. The mechanic voice added that we would have the option to leave – only if we had… comprehensive health insurance.

There’s the scuttle of my kitten’s impossibly small paws across the taut leather of my sofa. The quiet pelt of informal rain on the windows in my apartment. The scurry of my wine-veined fingers as they fly across the keyboard. It has been so long since I felt like I could write, and maybe I can’t even if I wish I could.

I keep waking up in the middle of the night. Sometimes from the acid ravaging my esophagus from some annoying ailment, sometimes from the jet lag that sits heavy on my eyelids at two in the afternoon and pries them awake at four in the morning. I tell myself that first thing in the morning, I will finally compile all of the golden thoughts and sparkling experiences- and predictably, this will vanishes as soon as the sun’s morning rays streak through the window. But after fingers fluttering around my neck and keyboard and apartment for several days, it’s time to write of the past two weeks. My past two weeks in Australia. Our past two weeks in Australia.

When we enter into deep relationship, we cast ourselves under somewhat of a microscope. As we cohabitate and learn the intricacies of another human and behold the runny noses and migraines and sulky moods and insecurities usually reserved for behind closed doors, we allow ourselves to become inspected.

Life feels so utterly calm in the wake of the chaotic, mess of a world around us. I feel, for the first time in a very long time, peacefully content. I feel at ease- with myself, with my immediate surroundings, with the days as they come and as they go. Recently, I took a few small, promising personal steps toward healing and self preservation by visiting a therapist and doctor to work through some of the sharp things that creep around my edges: the anxiety, the sadness, the anger. And since I’ve faced those difficulties head on, I feel emboldened. I feel strong. Physically, mentally, emotionally.

The sky is a sorbet of bright white clouds and silky grey with strips of unripened blueberry through the tall, secret-telling windows of our new apartment. I hear only the whirr of the washer and dryer, every so often interrupted by the shriek of a seagull. I’ve spent the past few hours sorting through the boxes stacked high against the cool concrete walls. Piling up dust blanketed books and milk glass to haul to Goodwill, sifting through ancient Sharpie covered CDs scattered among ink filled day planners, and tossing stack upon stack of irrelevant business cards. While I’ve moved seventeen times in the past ten years, I somehow manage to hold on to some impressive memorabilia.

Pressing my thumbprint onto the home button of my iPhone and waiting for the screen to illuminate, I never felt that my desire for connectivity on social media or phone to be abnormal. Because it’s not. I’ll sit in a friend’s living room where everyone else’s eyes scan their screens, I’ll sit in a café and more than half the faces are turned downward to their phones. I’ll be at a party and people are Snapchatting or taking selfies left and right, unembarrassed and filtered.

I’m sitting in the dim of my kitchen, glass of pinot noir at hand, dead flower petals and strings of ear buds scattered about my desk as I catch glimpses of darkening grey through the window. This shade of slate won’t seem to let up, though we were teased with a few days of shimmery sunshine and afternoons filled with the fluff of cherry blossoms.

Driving through the sunlit, endearingly gritty streets of Tacoma yesterday evening, I chat with my friend Ben after what felt like a very long, very sad day. We were both hurting for different reasons. Me because of one of the many little deaths out of which life always returns, and he because of the ugliness he had encountered that day with his students.

I remember lying awake on the bottom bunk in the room I shared with my little sister in the second grade. It would be well past midnight and I’d stare and stare at the tiny yellow roses on the bottom of her mattress, thinking about how stressed I was.